


The Richard Brook Effect

by bubblesbythebeach



Series: Still Not a Sociopath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conspiracy, F/M, Gen, Post-His Last Vow, The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesbythebeach/pseuds/bubblesbythebeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a copycat. A copycat of the Moriarty of old—a copycat bomber—John. We have to run.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. M

“Mycroft, get me back to Baker Street.”

John nodded at the figure striding towards them. “Right, you’re home early.”

Sherlock smirked. “ _Miss me_ , John?”

He couldn’t stop from laughing. “God, of all the times. Moriarty’s on the telly and look at us being funny.”

Sherlock’s phone rang in his pocket and he fished it out. “I’ve got three missed calls from Lestrade and two from Molly.”

Mycroft’s eyes slid away from his own phone. “Not a patch on _my_ call log, little brother.” It vibrated silently in his hand even as he watched and Mycroft answered with a barely contained sigh. “Yes, he’s here. No, quiet now. When the car arrives I want you to get in. This is not Scotland Yard’s department.”

Mary faced Sherlock. “So, plan?”

“When I came back from abroad John demanded an explanation. I told you Moriarty had to be stopped. Apparently that wasn’t good enough for you so you weren’t listening, but...” Sherlock waved a flippant hand. “Whoever’s doing this is using Moriarty’s face, so let’s humour them. Pretend we’re dealing with someone with the same ideas, the same recklessness.”

“This was a showy stunt, the screens. Very _V for Vendetta_ ,” John said.

“No idea what you’re talking about, but yes, more or less. This show is going to be big and bright and _bloody_.”


	2. O

On Thomas Frederick Morrison’s phone was a voicemail, but the phone was not on Tom’s person. It had an entirely different destiny.

Tom raised his hand to his mouth, whispering curses. Tears were falling off his eyelashes. “Molly, oh my god, I’m sorry.”

Molly lifted her eyes to the ceiling and breathed deeply. There was a cold sweat at her hairline and a heavy coat enveloping her arms and back. “Tom,” she hissed, “just shut up, and think. It’s a four digit code, Tom, you have to concentrate, _please_.”

The phone in Tom’s hand didn’t belong to him, but it was the only one that mattered at the moment. A new text appeared on the screen.

_JUST UNLOCK THE DOOR, TOM. THE LADY ALREADY SAID FOUR DIGITS, AND I GAVE YOU CLUES._

Tom grimaced and reached toward the electronic lock. _4-7-3-6._ The light on the lock stayed red.

_STRIKE ONE! YOU’RE STILL STUCK. MOLLY MUST BE SWEATING. SEMTEX IS HEAVY, RIGHT?_

He gave a choked sob. _4-7-3-4._

_STRIKE TWO!_

Tom whirled around, shouting at the camera in the corner. “Jesus Christ, what did I ever do?! Why frame me and why kill an innocent woman? We’re _nobody_!”

_’CAUSE I MISSED A SPOT. SHE’S THE SPOT._

_NOW I KNOW YOU’RE NO SHERLOCK HOLMES, BUT ONE MORE TRY BEFORE MISS HOOPER GOES BOOM._


	3. R

Resigning himself to a fiery, unfair death was the second hardest thing Tom had ever done. The hardest was something he was only halfway to comprehending, as if out of fear his brain was discarding the sides and corners of the idea, and yet the murder of the woman standing behind him was a possibility that was creeping closer to inevitability with Tom’s outstretched finger.

The electronic lock whirred. The thick door swung back and John Watson stood there with clenched jaw and dark eyes.

“Get out, now!”

Tom’s eyes darted to Molly in a wild panic. “They’re watching—”

“Not anymore. I said _run_!” John’s hand thudded into Tom’s shoulder, fingers digging into wool and swinging the taller man around him and up the stairwell.

He collided for a chaotic second with Sherlock who slid through the doorway hot on John’s heels – but Tom’s mind was buzzing with adrenaline and he ran up.

Sherlock overtook John with great bounds and pulled down at the sagging, blinking coat around Molly’s neck. “Off, off and run!” he cried. The Semtex-laden coat hit the concrete as Molly gasped raggedly.

 _It’s not going to detonate, it’s not going to detonate_ , was the prayer pounding between her temples. Sherlock ran behind, scarf overheating and choking before it fell off his shoulders in a flash of blue.


	4. A

“Are you sure we shouldn’t send her away? They kidnapped Molly and Tom without a hitch. They could bomb any place in London – we’ve seen it happen, Sherlock.”

“Then nowhere in London is completely safe. Mycroft’s people have been caught off guard and we may well be followed to his safe-houses.”

John kneaded his forehead. “This whole thing smacks of déjà vu.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Which should convince anyone that Moriarty himself isn’t behind this, contrary to what the press is stirring up. Jim Moriarty wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the same outfit twice, as it were.”

“So his fan, they’re... re-enacting a Best Of Moriarty reel, or something?”

“You see what they tried to do with Tom? A repeat. Not as detailed or grand, no, this was personal. Moriarty forgot about Molly three years ago, so his successor decided to sweep her up and take Tom along the way. He’d end up dead, his family and the public believing the worst of him, his reputation replaced with a criminal record.”

“How would that work though?”

“Same technique Moriarty used against me – plant false evidence, paint someone else as the villain. Then target loved ones to be collateral,” Sherlock said darkly. “They gave Tom a mask as Moriarty’s own lackey the same way he made himself look like Richard Brook.”


	5. N

“Not the way I thought I’d meet you again.” Tom’s hands were clasped together under the shock blanket, but his knee was jiggling without pause. He blinked. “Hey, you don’t have a blanket.”

“Oh. I might have—yeah, I think I left it somewhere.”

Tom lifted his arm, wrapping the corner of the shock blanket around Molly's shoulders. He leaned over her head, still so tall and gangly, and Molly realised this was the first time they'd touched each other in six months. His thigh was warm, firm against hers.

“I’m sorry. Can I say that? I’m so... I nearly got both of us killed.” Tom’s voice was hoarse. “It was just a stupid _number_ problem but I panicked, and... Molly, I wouldn’t have figured out the password. I’m not Sherlock Holmes. I’m not this brave, adventuring genius. If they really were going to frame me for your murder I would’ve deserved it.”

Molly looked up into his red, watery eyes. “They put you there to hurt me,” she whispered. “None of this is your fault. You were just the last person I really cared about that they could grab.”

Tom smiled thinly through the bruises on his face. “If we’d had another six months together, maybe I would have died for you. Without hesitation. Molly Hooper-not-Morrison, you are... beyond belief.”


End file.
